Fairytales of Music
by WynterVivaldi
Summary: A little tale based on Angel of Music-145's summary of POTO fairytale style. Hopefully, I'll finish this! Please R&R, greatly appreciated! T for now, but if I continue the fic to beyond the fairytale it may become M.  Minor updates 11/8/12
1. Prologue

**Fairytales of Music**

Author's Note: Hello! My first phanphic, and I would like to base it on this little tale I read on Angel of Mystery-145's little tale which I pasted here. Hopefully she won't be unhappy that I'm taking this tale from her…or at least turning it into a fairytale.

Hopefully I'll finish this! I also hope to make this tale as intriguing as possible and hope to get lots of reviews! :D

I also hope to use symbolism, and the Hidden Plot on here. Thanks for reading! I thus give you Fairytales of Music ^^

Phantom of the Opera-mini summary of deeper story (not b&w scenes):

Once long ago, in a kingdom devoted to song, there lived a king and a woman destined to become his queen. He loved her dearly, and from the time she was a little girl, up until she grew into a beautiful woman, he sang to her in dreams of comfort, watched over her, and trained her to become the only thing for which she desired and ever asked: Music. Because he was the spirit of Music, he created her into Music as well, and they gave to one another the gift of their song, singing only for the other.

The bonds between them grew powerful as her affection and awe for him strengthened into love. But an evil spirit sought to destroy them and take over the opera house kingdom. He deceived them both into believing he was their friend: For the king, since the time he was a child and caged by cruel gypsies. For his chosen queen, on the night she walked through the mirror and approached Music's throne, for the first time seeing her king. The evil spirit acted as a false priest to the king, and the king listened to him. Because the king had a deformity, the spirit lied to him, saying he must always hide, so as to keep him chained in darkness. But his intended saw deep beauty in him, regardless of his face, and she hurt for his pain. She desired the light and tried to persuade her king to open his eyes to it.

Also in this kingdom lived a woman who faithfully served the king as his priest, since the day she saved him from death when he was a child. She also wrongfully thought the evil spirit was a friend since he had protected the boy, and she served him too. Her daughter was young and ignorant of many things, slowly growing into her role. She, too, served the king, but not the Darkness, though she did herald its arrival to the subjects of the kingdom.

Into this kingdom arrived a handsome priest of the Light who wanted to free the people from the evil spirit, whose curse remained over the opera house kingdom and all its subjects. But when he saw his childhood love, his greater mission became lost as he grew solely focused on and served her. He was blinded to all that was expected of him, though he did help the woman priest to see the truth, and she recognized the evil of the spirit and denied him, to serve the Light instead. The priest's single-minded devotion for the young woman pushed him in to ignoring the kingdom rule of silence. Instead he committed treason and talked others into it as well-and he tried to take from the king his rightful queen. The king became hurt and angry when, out of fear of the Darkness, his intended did turn to her priest for a short time. But her love for the king triumphed, and she evaded plans for his capture, betraying the kingdom conspiracy to overthrow the king - and showed him what he must do to enter the light with her. Men sought to kill both the king and his intended and fear made him retreat, taking her with him. He then allowed the evil spirit to wreak all the deadly terror he desired, but later regretted his decision.

In one fateful night, the evil spirit exacted his revenge. Lives were shattered, while one was reborn, and two hungry souls were even more strongly bonded by a kiss. At last, the king recognized his intended's love for him, and his own love for her made him realize he could not keep her with him. Broken, he ordered her to go. But she returned and made one final plea, showing him her eternal love by folding into his hand her ring of light and promise, afraid he might not make the choice she wanted, but knowing she must leave the darkness behind. The king, upon hearing her parting song of love to him and the priest's vow to serve him, grew stronger in spirit, and he broke the evil spirit's hold over his life, leaving his fallen kingdom behind to enter the world of his beloved and share a life with her. . .

In a small forested area, in Persia, a small family huddled around candlelight in a dinky room, where a woman was crying out in pain from childbirth.

"Push, mama, I can see the head."

A small child encouraged her mother as the midwife tended to her. Beaded droplets of sweat covered her whole forehead, and she shivered as the cold air blew in, and it ruffled her scanty nightgown, which barely covered her body. The small child whimpered as the biting cold air rushed past her, and her mother convulsed slightly in pain from the birthing. Soon, the soft wails of a child were heard.

"Madam, it's a boy, a healthy one! But oh, la la, the face, he is like a demon child!" the midwife exclaimed, as she handed the child to his mother. "But his voice, so lusty."

The boy looked up at his mother, with sad pleading eyes, and all the innocence of a child. His mother screamed, and almost dropped him.

"Make a mask, a mask, my God! I cannot bear the sight of him, this- this-, DEMON!" She sobbed softly as she carried him roughly, contempt evident in her turning from him. And, as if the child knew, he began to howl, howl in pain, in that childish fear of rejection. The midwife's patient voice cut through all these hysterics.

"What will you name him?"

"He needs no name." she spat, with contempt. The midwife shrugged, and ushered the child out.

And from then on, he was the outcast. Made to do the most grueling and punishing of household tasks, he became more of the household drudge than a child. He watched in envy as the other children of his age, and the children of the house played, but they would run away from seeing him, shouting names at him, and laughing at his face. In his solitude, he would softly sing, and the forest animals would come, transfixed at the child with the angel's voice, and when he saw them, he would try to catch them, the childlike side of him emerging, but they would run, the wolf cubs crying bloody murder, ki-yi-ing for all they were worth. The deer would run, their soft graceful legs carrying them with the pounding hooves until all the animals had taken flight, far away from the monster with such an ugly face.

And while he was being shunned, in a resplendent house in Sweden, violin music played to a fair haired young baby, young daughter of daddy Daae. She was christened Christine Daae, and her mother was a flaxen haired beautiful young dancer, married to the famous Swedish violinist, Gustave. But one night, in a flight of fancy, this young dancer took flight and eloped with another young dancer, thoroughly breaking the Swede's heart. Together with his child, they traveled the land, performing for anyone who would listen or hire them.

In resplendent Paris, the father would often hear his young child exclaim of her love to join the opera troupe, to sing and to dance. Dancing came easy for her, as a Swedish child, she had learnt of many dances from the villagers. And at seven, when health problems and the weariness of constant traveling finally caught up the elder Daae, she was sent there as an orphan boarder, to learn the trade her heart so desired most. Madame Giry, with her firm set lips and wrinkles, set an imposing figure for the young Daae, but upon knowing her and her daughter, who was the same age as Christine, the young child soon found an everlasting companion. While she wept, the both Girys would comfort her, and help to fill the gap left by losing both her parents. And as she entered into the glitz and glamour of the stage, little did she know she had caught the eye of a little gypsy boy rescued not too long ago by Madame Giry.

This child had long ago considered the opera house to be a sort of palace for him, and he put in all sorts of trapdoors and constructed an underground playground for himself. And it was in this hallowed halls, with the likes of Adolphe Adam, Handel, Gluck, Beethoven and all being played that he would begin his little apparent kingdom. And he decided, almost from that moment that he heard her childish plaintive cry to join the ranks of dancers that this girl would be his queen.

As he sat at the beautiful pipe organ, which he had somehow squirreled away from a store in Paris, of course with leaving a small bit of money, he remembered his childhood. The day when he had woke up to find leering faces of gypsies all looking at him, treating him like an exotic bird on display. Except that he had not been exotic in the way the bird was, he was a deformity, a freak show, and as he later learnt, the new installment of this gypsy traveling circus, The Devil's Child. His small body fought and kicked, and he struggled with all his might to escape the bonds they had place around him. And his mother, smoking a hand rolled cigarette, leered at the male gypsies in a manner that even at his young age he would know to be wrong, slutty, and what he expected of someone who worked as she did, a prostitute. He saw no remorse in her eyes as the gypsies bundled him up and placed him in a rickety cart that felt it would fall apart at any second. He arched his back as the wooden splinters cut into his skin, as the rope did. As if the beatings he received from his mother and her lovers were not enough, he mused in silence, angrily. The cart trundled along, and he stared out at the world, with the children of his village, mocking and screeching at him as he looked out at them. He had a gunnysack pulled over his head, as his crudely fashioned by his own mother makeshift mask. Softly, he sobbed, as the tall gypsy who sat in his cart beside him brutally delivered blow after blow every time he made so much a tiny sniffle, until he could take it no more. Slowly, he curled up in a ball, the pain of the wounds both old and new blocked out by the pain in his heart, the pain of rejection, as he fell into a dreamless sleep of pitch black darkness, without so much of a spider's thread out of the darkness. The gypsy sat, yelling at his band mates, sipping out of his gin bottle with absolute crudeness, the child thought, his eye opening a crack as their journey continued, and a new day broke.

He would create a kingdom, a kingdom of music, he mused. There would be a queen with a beautiful voice, lilting as her laugh. He smiled, and hummed. A small light filtered in through a crack in the cart, and somehow in the back of his mind, he could hear a melody, soft and sweet, and see a Queen in all her finery.

Mine, he whispered, mine.


	2. Chapter 2: BeginningOverture

Chapter 2

Oh no, such a long hiatus. I feel terrible. This chapter is a work in progress, so please forgive me. I'll do mini updates here and there etc.

/trumpet fanfare/

I give you chapter 2!

Christine stretched, her graceful swanlike body bending to the rhythm of the music. Her eyes scanned the stage as she danced gracefully, turning to the beat of the song, a triumphant march to herald the return of the conqueror. As the dance rehearsal was stopped, she closed her eyes and gave a small sigh. Her dark brown eyes flickered up as she heard the name of a familiar person.

"Raoul," she whispered to herself.

Meanwhile, her king was lurking in the shadows, waiting. Her eyes shone with the brightest beauty as she gazed upon her childhood friend. In her still and beating heart she knew. The only time they'd be together was never. He had taken over her father's role, and here she sat, pathetic, a mere dancer in the corps de ballet.

Carlotta moved to center stage, her voice like eagles' talons upon a dusty chalkboard. The string loosed, and the set piece came grandly crashing down on her, a grand final ode to that voice, thought a certain cloaked figure. The carrot topped, well-endowed woman let out an ungraceful shriek as she was pinned under. The stagehand rushed to pull the prop up, and she angrily stormed out, waggling her finger at the managers and demanding her luggage. The diva's reign had ended; usher in the new queen with a dark finale. With pompadour. Under Erik's request, Madame Giry would push the shy girl forward, into the gleaming spotlight. That night, she would have her first taste of the limelight, dressed in an Empress' finery, decked from head to toe in the finest glittering diamonds and a pristine white dress, as the chandelier sparkled and burnt, heightening her to immeasurable glory. Beneath, her king merely smirked, silently applauding his little darling.

Raoul stood, and applauded. His heart sang with pride for his beautiful childhood friend. For that instant and since the end, his heart would be hers. And yet, he could feel just the strangest tugging in his heart. He was never to be hers. Shaking his head, he walked off to her room, where she sat, away from the bustle of the outside where her admirers noisily thronged. She gave a dazzling smile as he entered.

"Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes ..."

"Raoul!" she cried, happily. Remembering the old days...she sighed. How happy she was then, an innocent child in a Sweden.

"Or of riddles, or frocks. . ." he said, continuing.

"Those picnics in the attic. . ."

"Or of chocolates?"

Raoul stepped up to her, smiling as he knelt before her. They smiled at each other, long lost friends now reunited.

"Father playing the violin. . ." she murmured. How she had loved her father, his gentle touch on the bowstrings, as he played, any tune, from the sombre to the happy, it was utterly enchanting.

"As we read to each other dark stories of the North."

"What I loved best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed."

She opened her mouth to sing, a small tune she had remembered.

_And the angel of music sings songs in my head..._

Raoul shook his head, smiling. His slightly tone deaf, childish friend had grown, indeed. Her enchanting melody floated around the room, a lingering of bells and beauty.

"You sang like an Angel tonight."

"Father said 'when I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' Well, Father is dead, Raoul, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music."

Raoul raised an eyebrow. Really? it said, disbelievingly. Truth be told, Christine had never grown up. And she in that way, was the enchanting child of his memory, as they ran barefoot in the meadow.

"Oh, no doubt of it. And now, we go to supper!" he said, in an attempt to change the topic. His mind was wandering to their other memories, his pain an sadness when she had left...he refused to think of it.

"No, Raoul. The Angel of Music is very strict!" she said, firmly staying.

"I shan't keep you up late!" He chuckled. Christine was still a mere child, but the air between them had changed, as two grown friends, yet she was still obstinate, and stubborn...or was there something more? He shook his head internally. No, it could never be...

"No, Raoul!"

"You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte."

"No, Raoul, wait!"

And in a split second, the lights had been blown out. A tremolo built as the cloaked figure, partially shrouded in the darkness, smirked, and began to sing. His luring powers would bring his future bride back to his lair. But she would not be his. Not tonight. In a rich baritone he began, expressing his anger in song.

_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!_

Trembling, Christine replied in song.

_Angel, I hear you, speak, I listen, stay by my side, guide me. . . Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me. . .Enter at last, Master._

He smiled, pacified by his love for Christine. He would never hurt her, just that insolent boy...

_ Flattering child, you shall know me. See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror; I am there inside. . ._

She would not hesitate no longer for her master. She lifted her head, and her soul went out to him, in musical reply.

_Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory. . .Angel of Music, hide no longer, Come to me, strange Angel. . ._

_I am your Angel of Music/come to me, Angel of Music. _

Velvet exists merely behind closed doors. The lure of it. His voice, it made her heart sing. It was an enchantment, one he had learnt as a child in dark Persia. Raoul banged futilely on the closed door, his anguish, anger and sorrow scrawled over his face. As Christine walked past the open mirror, Erik silently congratulated himself. Success. But as his gloved hand closed around hers, the cold leather meeting her warmth, he jolted, and the enchantment broke. Her eyes sparkled with the greatest interest and deepest desire, smokily and temptingly. Her gossamer silk wrapper would around her slim form, and he suppressed a little cry of emotion, as he kept his steely resolve, leading her down the cold, cobblestone steps to the cellars of the Paris Opera House. Her lilting angelic voice soared in the cold atmosphere, warming it metaphorically as his torch did physically.

_In sleep he sang to me,_

_In dreams he came._

_That voice which calls to me,_

_And speaks my name._

_And do I dream again?_

_For now I find…_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there,_

_Inside my mind._

He stiffened. Is that what she saw him as? The deep dark Phantom? Yet she had called him her angel of music. His mind was awhirl with thoughts and emotions as he helped her up on the saddle, continuing his duet.

_Sing once again with me,_

_Our strange duet._

_My power over you,_

_Grows stronger yet._

_And though you turn from me,_

_To glance behind,_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there,_

_Inside your mind…_

She sat on the horse, in wonder. Who was he? Her angel or the dreaded Phantom? The horse's muscles jerked unsteadily under her, with a rhythmic clip-clop motion. Thank God, she had learnt a fair bit of horse riding, travelling and playing for the gypsy people. Swiftly, she dismounted, as they reached a river. A boat sat in the river, and a long, ebony pole with Death's head on top, in silver. He helped her on in a gentlemanly fashion, and she sat obediently in there, still silent in amazement, wonder, and it couldn't be. Was there a hint of romance in the air? Her heart beat silently, and yet, the person she loved...ah? Was the infamous Phantom? Yet he felt like a King.

_Those who have seen your face,_

_Draw back in fear._

_I am the mask you wear,_

_It's me,_

_They hear._

_Your spirit and my voice (The spirit and your voice)_

_In one combined,_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there,_

_Inside my mind (Inside your mind)…_

His rich baritone completely enveloped her as they entered a cavern, the portcullis slowly opening, and curtains of rich velvet after. She soaked in the atmosphere of her surroundings, looking around, absorbing it all. What was this, it was such a new sensation…She could only await and see, what her captor, her part lover, her mysterious angel would bring. She could not foretell. Time would tell, as he once again parted his divine lips to sing…

A/N: This is such a short chapter. I am highly disappointed in myself…/head desk and runs/. I don't own the lyrics, they belong to ALW the awesome. Okay, Erik. I will improve with the next chapter. PLEASE STOP BREATHING DOWN MY BACK, I BEG OF YOU. Dear God, that guy is scary! Please no punjabbing me. Or anything. R&R? :D

/throws you oodles and oodles of choco covered roses/

I am once again sorry for this not coming out sooner. School is…plus I have my O levels this year. Ugh.

/cries/


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